Bulletproof
by subhumanity
Summary: Despite all odds, Mello and Matt have managed to barely survive to see the end of the Kira investigation. However now that all of the danger and drama have calmed down, they're left with nothing but the distinct feeling that they're being followed...
1. I Kevlar

**A/N: So this is Bulletproof. It's been on my computer for ages and I posted it a couple of months ago. There were some major formatting issues, so I deleted it to fix them and here it is again.**

* * *

There's something disconcerting about being shot.

There's definitely something disconcerting about being shot, Matt decides as the first bullet hits, Kevlar or not - and he's decided that, if at all possible, he'd like to avoid such events repeating themselves.

When the second bullet hits, everything seems to go into slow motion and he realizes that he's not thinking clearly. 'Disconcerting' is hardly the word to describe what he's going through ('distinctly unpleasant' might fit better), so he silently thanks whatever god will listen for the small things, like the cigarette pressed between his lips and the sweet distraction of deadly smoke in his lungs.

The third bullet brings burning, excruciating pain, so all of the thanks he'd just been offering turn to curses and all Matt can think about doing is repeatedly stabbing the chest and face of whomever it was that concluded that bulletproof sleeves were simply too much to ask for. A gunshot wound to the arm is not deadly, but this time the splotch of red blossoming upon his striped shirt is real-his _own_-and so he doesn't even have the mental capacity to appreciate that the sound of gunfire in his video games is alarmingly close to reality's counterpart. The pain is terrible and persistent, so the original discomfort (about which he'd been complaining) fades to background noise now.

Around the tenth or twelfth bullet, the pain, pressure, and adrenaline get to be too much, so Matt passes out...but not before one last, long drag from his cigarette. As he goes, the back half of his brain registers his body falling and slumping against his newly ruined car. (Ashes fall to his vest, but he's too far gone to care.)

* * *

"...Anonymous corpse..."

"...Multiple gunshot wounds..."

"...Miss Takada's bodyguards..."

"...Against Kira..."

Hospital morgues are unpleasant.

The cold metal of the table he's lying on isn't too great either. The air conditioning is up way too high, and he could use a pillow, and possibly a cigarette, and Matt is about four seconds away from writing off a complaint to whoever would hear it when he catches on to the fact that this room's usual occupants are dead. Now he just hopes that his shifting of weight hasn't alerted anyone in the vicinity to his consciousness.

Ten minutes of silence pass before Matt decides that he is alone. Good. Slowly, he opens one eye. Yes, definitely a morgue. Judging by the smell, definitely a hospital. It's strange to think that he had liked these places once; this environment seems far from comforting to him now. Finally, he sits up and looks around, and then down at himself. In addition to his arm wound, it appears he has obtained at least one in the shoulder/arm area and another in the thigh. How utterly fantastic. He almost wishes he hadn't looked because soon after that discovery, the pain starts up again. Surprisingly, gunshot wounds fall into the category of things you don't realize are causing you excruciating pain until you see the extent of the damage.

The small amount of medical knowledge he's obtained from Wammy's (and 10-straight hours of CSI weekly [courtesy of illegally obtained TiVo]) told him that all three bullets have gone straight through his flesh and muscle (and possibly bone, if the immobility of his right arm is anything to go by), so he won't have to worry about that. However, when left as they currently are, he runs the risk of getting an infection or bleeding to death. Neither of those things sound particularly appealing, so he scans the area for bandages or anything of that sort. At first, he comes upon nothing but his attention is caught by something he deems far more interesting.

Out of pure curiosity, the redhead carefully twists to swing his legs over the edge of the metal table and reaches toward the chart on the silver clipboard on the table of medical instruments next to him. He tries with his right hand and is rewarded with a round of grueling pain. When he gets over that, he corrects the mistake and tries again with his left: the good arm. The use feels awkward and the papers provide him with no information he hadn't already deduced for himself, and the rest is in kanji that he hasn't ever bothered to learn. What a waste of time.

_'Ah, yes, bandages.'_ He hops and hobbles to a drawer near the sink and, luckily, is compensated for the trouble.

When Matt turns back around to go to the table, it seems a lot farther away than previously deduced so he lowers himself gingerly to the ground with the arm and leg that escaped the dangerous situation unscathed. A breath hisses involuntarily between his teeth with the pain that comes with the movement. It's nothing he can't bear though, of course, even though they_ have _resumed bleeding heavily. Black spots dance in his vision, providing thirty-six seconds of mild entertainment before he regaines his senses.

The only small favor he can think of this time was that those Kira-worshiping imbeciles had been none-too-eager to begin his autopsy, so his clothes, Kevlar, modesty, and pocket possessions are still intact-and perhaps that is enough to pacify him for now.

* * *

Mello is definitely going to Hell.

…Or prison, depending on who catches up to him first. Quite frankly, he isn't sure which one he'd prefer. But there's no time to dwell on that now.

His breath comes in huffs as he runs at full-speed away from that damn church, feet stomping noisily upon the hard-packed dirt ground, and the murderous bitch contained therein. His stiff muscles are getting sore, his eyes burn from the ash, his lungs seem to pump pure smoke (_is this what Matt feels like all the time)_, and his best and favorite motorcycle sits, stuck and forgotten, in the back of that stolen truck, but all in all (he supposes), he should be thankful. After all, he's alive. This is by far the most well thought-out plan he'd come up with in a long, long time, and it's been at least 50% successful.

At the time, forcing Lidner-one of Takada's bodyguards, Near's agent, and aid to Mello-to switch, hide, or burn all of Takada's hidden Death Note pages seemed like an unnecessary risk to take to ease his paranoia, but today, it saved his life.

And, for a while, he worried abou- errr- _considered the possible outcome _that someone might notice a blond teenager stuffing a body of his approximate size into the back of a delivery truck, but they hadn't. He thought that Takada might notice her kidnapper shoving a replacement corpse into the drivers' seat, but she was really less observant than one might think.

But he'd set the place on fire anyway, just to be sure.

So far, the plan was going more perfectly than he had ever predicted it could. He thinks he has a right to be proud, and so he is.

Of course, there was something else...

Matt's life would be the factor determining the complete success or utter failure of his months of plotting.

As Mello hops onto the old-but-functional motorcycle that one of his old mafia contacts had provided and kicks up the kickstand, he comes to terms with the situation, noting that there is nothing he can do but wait and see.

In such a manner, he begins the long drive back to the mediocre hotel in downtown L.A.

* * *

Bandaging his right shoulder with his left hand turns out to be more difficult of a task than Matt initially thought. Left-handedness and ambidexterity were two traits that he is not gifted with, but he manages and now attempts to make his way from the hospital to the hotel without being noticed by too many people, which is also indisputably more difficult than it sounds (who knew that blood attracted so much attention?) but, again, he manages. He'd studied a map of the area enough that he could work his way through the alleys blindfolded. If he remembers correctly, Mello had tested him by making him do just that.

After spending nearly 50,000 yen silencing witnesses at the hotel's service entrance, Matt stands, alone, in his suite. There is a door that connects his 'living room' to Mello's; the rooms are adjacent. That door was usually either unlocked or open, so the current status makes him feel slightly claustrophobic. The door is closed, and he can hear nothing but silence from behind it.

As all of the computers and technological equipment had been packed into suitcases and hidden somewhere (in case they "couldn't come back for it," Mello had said, but what he really meant was, "in case we die"), there is room on the couch for Matt to sprawl out and gingerly poke at his wounds. The pain makes him so out of it that he isn't even registering that he himself is causing the increase in discomfort. Almost as an afterthought before passing out, he turns on the television with the remote that he'd left sitting on the coffee table and turns up the volume too loud, so that Mello will be able to hear it if/when he returns, next door. It's the news, but enough time has passed that they aren't talking about him or Mello anymore. Small favors.

Matt doesn't have enough energy to formulate any coherent thoughts on Mello's condition, and everything fades to black again.


	2. II Alcohol

The door made an all-too-familiar 'click' sound as it shut behind him, and Mello decided that it was entirely too normal to exist after the day's events. He would have liked to shoot it, but logic told him that it would be better to lay low for a while. How immeasurably irritating.

Housekeeping must have come when he was gone, he observed, because the floor was not littered with chocolate wrappers. Other than that, everything was exactly as he'd left it. It was weird, somehow, and different from the aggravating door click because it was simply comforting- like returning home after a long vacation. Except that this wasn't home, he'd been here earlier that day, and what he'd gone through could hardly be described as a vacation by any definition of the word. The familiarity still was able to remind him that the world hadn't turned upside-down just because he might have gotten his best friend killed.

And speaking of Matt, as Mello kicked off his shoes in the general direction of the bedroom, he listened for any sign of life from next door. The unconscious breath he'd been holding was released in a soft sigh, but he knew better than anyone that assumptions could be deadly, so he headed next door to check for sure.

So, just like he owned the place, Mello unlocked the door between the rooms and waltzed right in. He saw the colorful reflection of the television screen on the off-white wall before he noticed anything else. It looked like a drawing Linda might have done in his likeness and idly, he wondered where they might have acquired that. Of course, that thought was quickly dismissed when his incessantly nagging brain reminded him what he was doing there in the first place.

"Matt," he said, and the tone made it a command. That was before he actually laid eyes upon the mangled shape of his assistant.

"Shit," he breathed, and was already stripping off the bloody clothes. First went the boots, then the jeans (Matt had been _shot_ and, oh God, was he bleeding)- the first bullet wound was frighteningly close to his jewels; he wondered what, exactly, those idiots had been aiming at-then the Kevlar gloves, and fur vest, and shirt, and finally the bulletproof vest. Mello tossed the heavy armor aside and quietly complained about "how many fucking _layers_ a person could wear."

So, in all, Matt had gotten himself shot a total of three times, not counting the ones deflected (although they did leave nasty violet and yellow bruises across his chest), and Mello didn't feel even the slightest bit guilty. Really, he didn't.

At least he had been smart enough to bandage himself up, Mello noted, but as he had not even stirred during all of this, he must not have been smart enough to get any decent pain killers back at the hospital and was therefore unconscious, in a huge amount of pain.

"And you call yourself a genius," Mello scoffed to no one as he went to fetch the morphine they had left over from his burns so long ago.

* * *

_'Heaven is surprisingly cold and stabby,'_ was Matt's thought upon waking. It was also loud, and lumpy, and dark, and smelled almost exactly like his hotel room. And that meant that, somehow, he still was not dead.

The pain returned and hit him in waves, centering around three specific points. It was, for lack of a better word, awful. And dreadful. And excruciating. Groaning, Matt forced himself into a sitting position.

"Oh, I'm naked," he added to his list of complaints, but the tone was purely observational.

"Obviously." The answer was so quick and casual, the voice so familiar, that Matt's head swung around so quickly he might get whiplash. "Dumbass," the voice added.

"Hey, douche bag. Looks like you lived." Matt answered, but he was grinning.

"Unharmed." Sounded like bragging, but he was half-smiling, too. "Can't say the same for you."

"Yeah. Got shot a few times."

"Almost blew your balls off."

"Maybe there is a God." The conversation was so nonchalant, despite the topic, that Matt laughed, but then frowned. "Hurts like a motherfucker, though. Constantly. And I also need a cigarette." He poked curiously at his leg wound and instantly regretted it.

"Painkillers are on the table and you'll be living without sucking smoke until you can take it outside," Mello told him tauntingly, "because I won't have it smelling like shit in here."

Matt stared at the table for thirty-seven seconds before realizing that it wasn't morphine but Advil that his friend had been referring to, which meant that the morphine was _gone_, which meant that he'd been out for a while. He tried to be thankful that there was at least that, but failed. Getting shot does not equal slight migraine headache pain or toothache. There was no way in hell a mild ibuprofen would suffice.

Mello sauntered over to the kitchen-like area and retrieved a bar of chocolate that probably cost fourteen times what it was worth from the miniature fridge stocked by the hotel. Still, it was almost as though he'd waited until Matt woke up to get his chocolate fix. Almost.

"Fuck you," the redhead grumbled as he downed the pills, mourning his lack of cigarettes, but he was smiling. It was almost as though he were genuinely glad that Mello was alive and things were normal enough between them.

_Almost._

When Mello returned to the main part of the room, he just plopped down on an armchair and stared at the television screen. Even though Matt was doing the same, neither was really paying much attention.

'_We lived.'_ The thought came from a blond head, but Matt's thoughts weren't too far off. And since thinking it didn't feel like enough, he said it out loud. "We lived."

This plan had been labeled as risky, nearly suicidal, with a 96% probability of failure. But they had lived. Both of them. Together. Alive. How had they fit into that 4%? The most probable outcome was that they'd both die. Complete failure. Next was that only one of them would live (it was impossible to calculate who), followed by one getting seriously wounded. That was the 4%. There had been a 0.6% chance that they'd both escape unscathed but, hey, no one could be that lucky.

The room was loud with the newscaster's voice and Mello's chocolate snapping and Matt's uncomfortable sighs. Why had no one mentioned that being shot hurt so much? He was certain that he should've been informed. Shooting videogames would be a whole new experience now, he was sure. In what he hoped was a discreet manner, the gamer snuck a glance at his friend, only to find that he needn't have bothered because Mello was staring right back at him from the corner of his eyes in that Mello-ish way of his-the one that said 'so you caught me staring. I dare you to guess why… but, if you're wrong, I'll shoot you in the kneecaps.' …Or maybe it didn't say all of that. Regardless, Matt was the one to look away first.

"Hey, Mells," he said, even though he already had the other's attention and knew it.

Mello only raised an eyebrow, though whether it was at the nickname-which Matt knew he hated because he 'was not a girl or a dog'-or to show that he'd heard, Matt wasn't sure. He continued speaking anyway.

"We're alive," he repeated.

"4%," was the response and even though it didn't make any technical sense, the meaning would always be obvious to them.

"4%," Matt confirmed unnecessarily.

Mello smirked and looked back at the television screen. Obviously he was not in the mood for conversation.

"Let's get wasted," Matt suggested, but what he meant was 'we should celebrate.'

Instead of giving a verbal answer, Mello reached over the arm of his chair. When his hand resurfaced, a bottle of Jack Daniels was in its grasp. He tossed it to Matt, who hissed with pain because he'd accidentally caught it using his shit arm, before reaching back down and grabbing some generic bottle of vodka for himself. He'd been prepared, though not with their drinks of choice. It would definitely serve its purpose.

When he'd finally managed to get the cap off using one hand, one leg, and his mouth, Matt lifted his bottle and cleared his throat dramatically. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he noted that alcohol and morphine made a very dangerous combination but he assumed that he'd been off of the stuff for long enough that it shouldn't matter.

"To Near," he toasted jovially, "who we are currently beating, and statistics, which can fuck themselves because we won."

Mello smirked again, still silent, and lifted his bottle in response. There was something off about him and Matt wondered if he'd remember to figure out why he was acting so calm and quiet and tense and _weird _all of a sudden when this was all over. Alcohol should fix it anyway, he justified.

* * *

**A/N: Excuse my change of tense. Writing in the present is both uncomfortable and tiring, so... this.**


	3. III Wound

For the record, alcohol never _did _fix and never _does_ fix anything. Matt was just coming to that conclusion as he polished off his third full bottle of booze, still in pain, and was telling his 'getting shot' story for the fourth time. Mello was listening like it was the first.

"I thought I was going to _die," _Matt finished again, eyes wide with the intensity he was trying to convey. His arm was out to the side in what would have been a broad, dramatic gesture had it not been ruined by his bloody, limp other arm. He just looked like some kind of messed up rooster, greeting the morning at midnight, or the last slot machine in a rundown Vegas motel.

"Shit," Mello commented sympathetically, sounding quite a bit like he was just trying to swallow his own tongue.

"Mmnnehh,"-which was never a good way to begin a sentence- "'m sorry, Matt," he continued to whine in a tone that never existed in any form of sobriety, let alone Mello's. "I never meant for you to get shot, err, hurt, you know?"

Matt released a sound that was stuck somewhere between a bark and a giggle as he leaned back over the arm of the couch to stare at Mello, upside down. As odd as the position was, the pillow beneath his back made it slightly comfortable, so he stayed that way. He also took a moment to study the way the world blurred and then came back into double-focus with the movement.

"It's okay," he drawled. "I'd do anything for you, Mellsy." He was lying. After consuming that much alcohol, he was still capable, even if it wasn't entirely on purpose. Maybe later, when he was sober, he'd wonder if he was an alcoholic. "You're my best friend." But that was true.

"I'm your only friend, dumbass," was what Mello was supposed to say, but he just smirked crookedly, finishing his second bottle. He didn't drink as much or as often as Matt, therefore making him capable of getting much drunker on much less alcohol, but even as he was, he was able to hold his tongue… to an extent.

Drunken Matt was only too willing to fill the silence.

"You know, when I woke up in that morgue, I didn't even notice I was fucked up at first! I was too busy wondering if you were okay!" He laughed because he was too out of it to decide whether that was true or not. He was just set on getting a reaction out of his friend, to get him to do or say anything that he'd never admit in the morning, go out of his comfort zone, and maybe even be human.

It may even have worked because Mello opened his mouth as if to speak but, lost in his own determined little world, Matt cut him off.

"What are we going to do now, anyway? Nearfuck has the Kira thing covered, and he'll take over the detective business after that, but we need to do something with our lives to get money, and how are you supposed to beat Near, and stuff?" That had sounded a lot better in his head. Or, more accurately, it had never been _in_ his head. It was as though his lips formulated his thoughts instead of his brain.

Again, Mello tried to answer and, again, Matt-the ever-talkative drunk-cut him off.

"Are we gonna keep going after K'ra? 'Cause, I know that you said Near was gonna do something eventually or soon and I'm all shot up now and you're drunk so will there even be time?"

Mello's eyes narrowed purposefully. He was going to answer this time, damn it!

"I-"

"No, not you, _we_, you idiot. We're in this together so you need to stop saying 'I' and say 'we' instead because I'm part of it anyway so-"

That was where Mello stopped listening and got irritated. He did not like being interrupted, especially not by Matt, and _especially _not by a drunk Matt. A plan began to formulate. His brow furrowed with the effort… and then his impulsiveness just took over. Fuck planning, anyway.

What Mello _meant_ to do was say "put a sock in it" and hit Matt, but Matt was drunk and therefore wouldn't let him speak, anyway, so the words were out of the question, and Matt was severely hurt, so violence was out, too. So, then, he meant to _literally_ stuff a sock-or anything else-into Matt's mouth, but he couldn't find anything, so he used his tongue instead.

Admittedly, that was not exactly the next logical step in that thinking process (and in no way was 'sock' equivalent to 'lips') but, in his defense, Mello was impaired and feeling guilty about getting his friend shot, which was why he didn't pull away immediately. That and Matt's chapped lips were softer and warmer than they looked. Also, Matt had drunk enough Jack Daniels that the taste of his chapped lips was enough to send a trail of fire down Mello's throat.

But when he finally did choose to pull away and free Matt's mouth and tongue from his sinister clutches, a bare, sweaty hand came out of nowhere and entwined itself in Mello's hair, keeping his head still. Now he realized that Matt was drunk and horny and being not at all unreceptive to Mello's advances so he responded eagerly, as well.

They were drunk, high off of the pure euphoria of life (when you expect nothing but death), and making out upside down in a dark hotel room for no reason at all (if it could really be called that, considering neither was coherent enough to know exactly what was going on, so it was more sloppy teeth and saliva than anything).

When Mello finally pulled back and Matt sat up, sparing his neck an extra amount of pain from being contorted in irregular positions, they wiped their lips with the backs of their hands simultaneously. Mello spoke first, seizing his opportunity to get a word in.

"I can taste your tongue in my mouth," he observed, laughing in a singsong voice, rather than saying anything important. To be perfectly truthful, he couldn't quite recall what he'd wanted to say in the first place.

Matt snorted and laughed, clearly amused. He threw his head back again and declared, "You're pretty."

Mello smirked, slightly off center, and pulled the bottle from Matt's hand. He met with no resistance. They'd both definitely had more than enough, and any more would undeniably be overkill for their poor, pickled livers.

"I'm tired," the redhead then declared out of the blue and passed out right there on the sofa, bloody and mostly naked and reeking of booze.

Instead of giving any semblance of a damn, Mello dropped the bottle-it spilled, giving the room an entirely unpleasant odor of rubbing alcohol-and stumbled off to bed back in his own room.

No, alcohol never fixed anything at all.

In reality, it just created more problems.

* * *

When Matt wasn't awake when Mello came into his room to retrieve the aspirin (he had one _hell_ of a hangover), he dismissed it as laziness and left the hotel feeling mildly irritated.

When Matt wasn't awake when he got back late that night, Mello grumbled and threw the balled-up sock from the stripping/bandaging escapade at the redhead, who didn't so much as stir. Mello went back to his hotel room and tended to the laptop he'd rescued from their secret hiding place.

The next morning, Matt was still in the same position in which Mello had last seen him, sock-in-face included. Mello grumbled something about sloth being one of the seven deadly sins and the inconvenience that he hadn't found that sock on the night of their drunken celebration-he couldn't quite remember _why_ he had wanted a sock, only that he had desperately desired one-as he kicked the heavy door shut behind him.

Matt still wasn't awake when Mello dragged the heavy suitcase full of their remaining electronics through the front door of Matt's hotel room. Mello was really only the slightest bit irked that the arrival hadn't triggered some sort of reaction in Matt's nerd senses that would cause him to wake up, and he was even _less _irked that Matt hadn't then jumped up and interrogated him as to where he had been all day, because he 'had been _worried_, damn it.'

So Mello opened the suitcase, grabbed the PSP, and tossed it at his sleeping accomplice. Nothing. That was bothersome. He went back to the bag and his fingers hovered over a pack of cigarettes-desperate times called for desperate measures-before grabbing it, as well. If anything would get a response out of Matt, nicotine would.

The carton of cigarettes was one of four, as Matt had been absolutely sure that, if he survived, he'd be too lazy/drunk to go to the store to buy some, and if only Mello survived, he'd need a depressing reminder of his fallen friend…and maybe even a smoke, himself. If neither of them survived, then hey, free cigarettes for whatever lucky loser happened to stumble upon their suitcase.

When the only reaction Matt gave when the corner of the box bounced off of his skull was a pained and not-completely-there groan, Mello knew that it was cause for…_concern_.

In a matter of seconds, he was over by the couch, checking pulses and inspecting wounds and listening for breath. There was something wrong with Matt. His pulse was weak, his breathing was strained and, _oh God,_ he didn't know why.

He should have noticed sooner. His _best friend_ was lying there, dying on the couch, and Mello had thrown things at him, called him lazy, ignored the symptoms! How was he supposed to be number one if he missed something so _obvious_? God. Near would have noticed. _Near_ noticed _everything._ Matt should be working with _him._ Matt's stupidity would balance well with Near's intelligence.

… No, no. This was an infection in its early stages and it was Matt's own fault for not cleaning and tending to the damage properly. Near was a bastard, and Matt was _his_ idiot. Mello stopped the pacing he didn't know he'd started in the first place-his thoughts always came faster in movement-and flipped Matt over, taking no caution to spare any discomfort. Sure enough, the exit wound from the shoulder shot was showing the telltale signs of an infection to come. It was inflamed and Matt seemed to be running a high fever…

Thankfully, though, it wasn't too bad yet. It obviously hurt a lot regardless because somehow, Matt was managing to be unconscious, difficult, and noisy in vocalizing his discomfort simultaneously while Mello was trying to remove the bandage.

"Shit," Mello sighed-more out of the regret of his ruined day and future days than for worry over his best friend's condition-and set his mind to unwrapping and disinfecting.

The entire process took about twenty minutes and when he was done, he snapped a bite of chocolate thoughtfully and rested his hand on his hip, somewhat satisfied with his work. Not too shabby. Definitely better than what Near could do.

'_But Near wouldn't have had to,'_ that helpfully irritating voice in his head supplied. Even true as it was, he was determined to not be affected by it. So he'd fucked up. Who was going to say anything about it? Mello had made far more progress in the Kira case than Near had-and ever could without him, indirectly saving his life-and that stupid albino bastard had just clung onto his back and reaped the benefits of his labors.

With this hatred fresh on his mind, Mello sauntered back out of the hotel room to go illegally obtain more things that would be necessary for survival until Matt was well enough to move all of their shit again.

On a completely unrelated and mildly alarming note, he and Matt officially had nothing to work towards, nothing to do, no real earthly purpose. He probably could get reenrolled with the Kira case as the only person who knew both his name and saw his face was very, very dead, but that only would work for the immediate future. For plans beyond the next few weeks (days?), he'd have to think of something else. But as Mello was very uninterested in thinking about things that wouldn't happen for a while, he continued his thoughts and ideas on beating Near. The face-to-face meeting between the Japanese NPA task force and the SPK had occurred a couple of days ago, but he didn't know the outcome. When Matt woke up, he'd have some serious hacking to do.

Technically, he knew that he should inform Near that they had survived. It was common courtesy, after all, considering the three of them had been good friends until the rankings came into play, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The little sheep most likely wouldn't know the difference anyway.

Mello stopped at a gas station to pick up a bar of chocolate on his way to the hiding place. He didn't need it, really, and nothing sold at such low prices would ever satiate his cravings, but since he didn't have Matt-or anyone else-to complain and talk to, he was bored. Slapping a couple of dollars on the counter and muttering a low "keep the change," he slid out of the little shop and toward his motorcycle. The candy was already halfway melted when he unwrapped it, but given the L.A. sunshine, that couldn't be helped. By the time he straddled the bike, he was already licking the melted chocolate off of his leather gloves and cursing the way his skintight pants became less and less practical as time ticked toward noon.

The hiding place was really nothing more than an empty lot bordered by the back of a small library and an alleyway, scarcely more than five feet across. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence that he had to hop over (another testament to the terrible combination that was leather pants and criminal activity), but he'd done it so many times that it didn't even register in his brain. The toe of his combat boot sunk in where Matt's suitcase had been buried, so he dug it in further to see if he'd left anything behind. There was no surprise when he met with nothing, as everything was supposed to be contained within boxes and bags, all of which were accounted for back at the hotel.

There was surprise, however, when he approached the place where the documents and important files had been hidden and found that the soil had been disturbed. All of the old information from the Kira case was in those files. The contact information for a number of the remaining mafia contacts was there, along with aliases and IP addresses of some of the world's most skilled computer hackers. There was probably even information about Near in there, not that it was really all that important. All of his and Matt's fake identification and billing information had been there, too, along with their passports and receipts for less-than-legal purchases.

Someone had this box of documents, and that someone not only had access to some of his and Matt's finances, but also knew what they looked like, where they lived, that they'd worked with the mafia, and that they'd worked on the Kira case. They were _screwed._

Instantly, he went on guard. The gun in his motorcycle jacket suddenly felt fifty times heavier.

Surely, the police would have located them at the hotel and arrested them already, he thought. In CSI and Law and Order and Criminal Minds, didn't they always do stakeouts of this sort of thing? Had he been followed? Was he being watched? It was so hard for him to act normally that every rise and sink of his shoulders felt like an exaggerated movement. No, he definitely would have noticed a cop sitting around. He was in the _mafia _for Christ's sake, that sort of thing had always had the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end. Despite his unease, though, he did not feel insecure about his instincts and proceeded with great caution back to his motorcycle.

As sure as he was that no one was watching, he didn't want to press the issue by lingering too long. He nudged the kickstand back and took off; the roar of the engine between his legs was a small comfort. As he leaned over the handlebars and zoomed through traffic at a neck breaking speed, he almost felt safe.

* * *

**A/N: Woot, third chapter. This is where I finished writing forever and a day ago, so if my style slightly-or dramatically- changes after this, I'm sorry. XD;;**


End file.
